


Sunday

by MMXIII



Series: A Touch of Madness [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Psychopaths In Love, criminal boyfriends, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:59:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1242139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMXIII/pseuds/MMXIII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet moment</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Воскресенье](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1361899) by [Fox_Thom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Thom/pseuds/Fox_Thom)



> Very short I know, got way too much on at the moment!
> 
> UPDATE: Russian translation available [!!] see end :)

_For it can never be that war shall preserve life, and peace destroy it_

– Thomas Hobbes, **_Leviathan_**

 

* * *

 

 

_You put your arm through the coffee table again_

_mmm_

_Can I see?_

The _thing_ that is Jim shifts noncommittally, publicizing neither affirmation [disinterest] nor dissent [rage]. His black, _black_ head hangs off the edge of the bed, taut throat to aquiline jaw. Arms are splayed out, forearms bared to the ceiling [like a saint, like a schoolgirl]. The left one is marbled up to a rumpled white cuff at his elbow with flaky blood and tiny flecks of glass. _It_ is swathed in a thousand threads of papery cotton that draw the blood into minute crosshatching creating flecks like linear snowflakes. _It_ says nothing.

_James…_

One foot over the threshold. Breath in; _Brace._

But there is nothing again, and it surrounds them, surrounds them both, yawning, gaping.

And the moral _dehydration_ that sits in Jim’s sunken blue eye sockets festers a little more, a little more, and a little more. Crooked French nursery rhymes flicker and manifest brokenly in the minute spasms of his cracked [forked] tongue. [Someone is/was screaming, is/was dying, is/was dead]

Sebastian’s mind is on fire with the thought of sliding his fingers under the apex of that sick/sickened/sickening skull, index finger pressed against the first cervical vertebrae, the _atlas bone_ , [steel girders under the empire]

Live and white hot and stupid to touch, and worse to hold on to, and disastrous to want, and unspeakable to need

 _Yes_ , says Jim, to Sebastian via the ceiling

_Make it stop_

 

 

 

* * *

 

Read a Russian translation here: [Воскресенье](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1361899) by  [Fox_Thom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Thom) [!! :D]


End file.
